


Save a Hoofbeast, Ride a Clown

by HarlequinMistress



Series: getting off your high horse [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Asphyxiation, Attempt at Humor, BDSM, Biting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nook Eating (Homestuck), Quadrant Confusion, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarlequinMistress/pseuds/HarlequinMistress
Summary: Darkleer was a troll of impeccable standards and manners, truly a merit to his caste. How he found himself being railed by his commanding officer? Well… He doesn’t really know either, but can’t really find it in himself to complain.
Relationships: Darkleer/Grand Highblood (Homestuck)
Series: getting off your high horse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199321
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Save a Hoofbeast, Ride a Clown

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my pal Zen for listening to my woes while writing this! I hope you like it. :D

It is a lazy evening for the Executor. An exemplary espionage mission has afforded him a few nights’ leave, and he is taking full advantage of it. Lounging in his respiteblock, reading the latest in bestselling musclebeast literature—small luxuries that make the reams of paperwork required by the Empire bearable. When a Chittr notification rings out throughout the block, Executor Darkleer leisurely picks up his palmhusk, putting aside his book, and checks the post.

_ Oh, fiddlesticks. _

A picture of the highest subjugglator officers greets him on the small screen. And, in the middle of all the mirthful monks, the object of Darkleer’s concupiscent fantasies—his commanding officer, the Grand Highblood. That alone wasn’t enough to elicit such profanity from the Executor, no, there was a location tag. For the bar on the edge of  _ his _ base, the Carrot & Stick.

He nearly crushes his palmhusk in excitement and rushes to get properly dressed, shucking off his comfortable, satin blue pajama set and wiggling into his skintight uniform. This was the first time the Highblood was on this base in nearly two perigrees—he was  _ not  _ going to miss this rare opportunity to interact with his superior in a,  _ how scandalous _ , purely social setting. Darkleer had squandered previous opportunities, dithering and worrying about the impropriety so long he missed the Highblood’s public social forays. He hurries to the Carrot & Stick, unwilling to allow this opportunity to pass him by.

Darkleer takes a moment to catch his breath and compose himself, before pushing in the door and entering the bar proper. Walking through the crowd, he gives the Carrot & Stick and its patrons a cursory glance, and sees many of his compatriots and underlings in various states of inebriation.

_ Disgraceful. _

The bar was once suitable for trolls of higher standing, but that time was sweeps past. The brocade-patterned wallpaper is faded, and the bottom half has stains of indeterminable origin. The candelabras are missing crystals left and right, the wooden tables are gouged intermittently. There was no art to speak of. The only thing that looks well-maintained are the marble countertop of the bar and the lit shelves filled with liquor bottles. While this establishment was suitable for midbloods and downright classy for lowbloods, it was not at all appropriate for  _ their  _ caste. It was truly shameful how  _ popular  _ this bar was with the new recruits and with Darkleer’s platoon in particular. It is certainly no place befitting the patronage of the Highblood.

He is, for once, glad of the fact that he goes unnoticed at most times, as he knows nearly every single troll in the crowd. He doesn’t need that kind of distraction tonight. 

Despite this, Darkleer still almost rouses a troll from his platoon to lecture him on the  _ proper  _ ways to be a indigoblood, how his actions reflect badly upon the entirety of the archeradicators, and a thousand other slights when he sees the reason for his deigning to darken the doorstep of this sleazy establishment.

The Grand Highblood, partitioned away from the rest of the rabble by a gauzy purple curtain. It and the table he is seated at looks like they were hastily assembled, evidence that there hasn’t been a purpleblood in this bar since its opening. Nevertheless, the Highblood’s boisterous, deep laugh rings out throughout the bar, echoed by the laughter of his entourage.

Darkleer’s breath catches, and he can feel prickles of sweat at the back of his neck. These outings are Darkleer’s only chance to talk with his superior officer outside of work, he reminds himself. Futilely, as his nerves are not at all eased by the reminder. The formality and structure of the Alternian military were his only crutch in his previous interactions with the Highblood. He would enter the blood-plastered throne room, bow, make his report, and when the Highblood dismissed him, he left.

The Executor saddles up to the bar, and sits on a blue velvet-upholstered barstool. The bartender—a tired looking oliveblood— pauses polishing a glass, but her eyes go right over him. He clears his throat. She startles and asks, “What can I get for you, sir?”

“A glass of milk,” he responds distantly, distracted by the purplebloods in the periphery of his vision. He doesn’t notice the sideways glance she gives him before sitting the drink in front of him with a, “Here you go, sir.” Somewhat perturbed, the oliveblood leaves him to attend to the rest of the indigoblood masses.

Darkleer takes a long drink of this mediocre milk (he was truly spoiled by the fresh milk his lusus gave him as a wriggler), and gets lost in his thoughts for a moment. There were many different ways this evening could go. The most likely of which was that he was too cowardly to approach the Highblood directly, and spent another night furtively glancing at the troll, completely unnoticed. Worse case scenario, he would find an agreeable noble troll with rippling muscles to take back with him, as he usually ends up doing. But he dared to hold out hope for a more  _ optimistic  _ ending for this evening to come to pass.

Namely, to find himself being tied face down to the Grand Highblood’s concupiscent platform—to be put in his proper place, a mere tool for his better to  _ use _ . If that old adage is true, by how  _ long  _ and  _ curved  _ the Highblood’s horns are, his bulge ought to be legendary. How foolish of him, to entertain the thought that the Highblood would want  _ him  _ in that way. While they had worked well together for the past several sweeps, the Highblood was truly the epitome of all purplebloods, well-deserving of the title  _ Grand _ , he could have any troll he wanted.

His swooning is interrupted by the barkeep placing another drink in front of him, the gentle clink of the glass against the marble breaking him out of his reverie. The drink is alarmingly blue, a strong scent of artificial berry wafting up as it bubbles away in a delicate crystal flute glass. Darkleer looks up, surprised, when the barkeep gestures to the curtain and mutters, “From the Grand Highblood.”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Darkleer slowly turns to the purple corner of the bar, and the Highblood is looking directly at him. He holds his gaze for a beat, and gives Darkleer a lecherous wink before going back into deep conversation with the other clowns at his table. The Executor colors and whips back around, and tries to find the answers to the Empire’s problems in the depths of his milkglass.

He did not expect this outcome, had never gotten  _ this  _ far. This was uncharted territory. It—and pardon the language—scared the hell out of him. But it was also  _ very  _ exciting. He had been courted before, of course, but never by  _ royalty _ . Never in his wildest of fantasies would Darkleer have imagined the  _ Grand Highblood  _ to actively pursue  _ him _ . Grasping at a strand of courage accessible only to the most idiotic and aroused of trolls, Darkleer slams back his milk and stands up. Although he has long since mastered control over his strength, still he very gently and carefully picks up the drink the Highblood so kindly bought him and heads over to his table. The olive bartender rolls her eyes at his retreating back.

As Darkleer approaches the Highblood, a thousand potentialities swirl in his pan… And yet, none of those happen either. He pushes aside the curtain and stands directly in front of the Highblood, and bows to him, exactly as he had done every other time they had spoken. The entire clown table goes silent, in anticipation of experiencing exactly what the fuck is about to go down.

“Good evening, Grand Highblood, sir,” the Executor says stiffly, head still bowed, and trembling slightly. Addressing the other purplebloods at the table, “And your eminences.” 

“Sup, bro,” the Highblood responds, and points to the glass in Darkleer’s hand. “You looked like a Moon Mist Blue kind of bitch,” he says, as if that has any meaning whatsoever.

The Executor stills and rises out of his bow. “Pardon me, sir?”

“Classy type of bitch.”

Darkleer preens at this compliment, however esoteric it may be, takes a sip of the drink in question and sets the fluted glass down. And tries very hard to not gag from the horrific combination of warm faygo and  _ very  _ strong vodka. The other subjugglators at the table laugh, but are silenced by the flash of irritation that crosses the Grand Highblood’s face. They go back to talking about whatever it is that clowns talk about and politely ignore the awkward exchange before them, and live another night.

“Why don’t we take this someplace else?” asks the Highblood, as if he were privy to Darkleer’s innermost secret desires.

He stands, not waiting for an answer from the Executor, and makes his way out of the bar, throngs of indigobloods diving out of his way. And when Darkleer follows him out, the crowd actually sees him; an intoxicatedly brave troll wolf-whistles and Darkleer’s young secreterrorist yells out, “get that clown bulge!”

To that, Darkleer sends a nasty look towards him that unmistakably means  _ Secreterrorist Codakk, you are going to regret this at next quarter’s salary review,  _ before exiting through the front—and, like a true gentletroll, the Highblood held the door for him. Darkleer gives him a small nod in return, and gently says, “Thank you, Highblood.”

“Ain’t no fuckin’ thing.” He replies, and Darkleer rankles at the revolting language. But he is briefly mollified by the fact that he is eye-level with the Highblood’s sternum and has a wonderful view of his impressive chest.

The Highblood leads him over to a disused barrack and leans against a wall, all smooth-like. Darkleer stands gawkily some feet away, in parade rest. The Highblood pulls out a red- and lime-enameled cigarette case from the depths of his giant spotted clownpants and wordlessly offers Darkleer one.

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t smoke,” he replies.

The Highblood shrugs and lights up. He takes a long drag and lets out a stream of acrid green smoke. Contemplating for a moment, he says, “I bet you’re wonderin’ why I chose you outta that entire fuckin’ bar of bluebloods, huh?”

Darkleer, sheepish, says as he tries not to cough, “As your inferior, I would never presume as to doubt any of your decisions, sir. But... it would be a lie if I said I wasn’t curious of your motivations.”

The Highblood lets out a loud chortle, and along with the laugh comes, impossibly, even more smoke. (Darkleer  _ does  _ cough at this onslaught of dank.) “No need to be so fuckin’ formal, my fine invertebrother. We ain’t workin’, we’re just two motherfuckers up and chillin’ together.” He pauses for a moment to take another hit, and grins, “Ain’t like the fuckin’ honor of the Empire or some shit’s on the line.”

The Executor bristles further at the continued profanity, but rephrases his inquiry anyway at the implied order. “Why did you choose me?”

“‘Cause you got an ass that coulda been sculpted by the Sister Messiah herself and you look like a sturdy bitch.”

“And… and that’s it?” Darkleer says incredulously. He had been wishing that he would have remembered him from all of the exemplary assignments and contracts he had done for the Highblood. Something that wasn’t so crass or carnal.

“Uh… Yeah. I mean, you got a fat pair of tits, too. Fuckin’ ain’t that complicated, ya like what ya like. I like warmer bitches with fat asses. I know it’s a bit of a motherfuckin’ change from you and your bluebrothers’ all-day hoofbeastplay sessions—”

“How dare you accuse me and my caste of such perversion!” He hisses with the righteous indignation of a troll who owns  _ many  _ hoofbeast shamesticks.

But before he can go truly ballistic, before he goes on his treatise on the cultural denigration of the time-honored indigoblood tradition of high art with the comparison to pornography (like a hypocrite), he is interrupted by the Highblood roaring with laughter. That knocks him out of his rage and he realizes that he has gone  _ far _ above his stratum with the  _ deadliest  _ purpleblood and leader of a cult that regularly does _ ritual troll sacrifices _ . 

“I apologize, Highblood, sir,” he says as he looks up at the Highblood directly, exposing his neck in a sign of submission. “That was entirely unbecoming of me, I was completely out of line. As my superior, you have right to say whatever you wish of lesser castes and trolls such as myself. I am sorry, sir.”

That only serves to send the Highblood into a new fit of screaming laughter. If Darkleer weren’t so terrified of being culled on the spot, he would have been offended. Eventually the Highblood’s chuckles subside, and he draws a handkerchief chain from his pocket. He wipes the laugh-tears from his eyes with the endmost kerchief, and tucks the whole thing back where it was.

“Messiahs-damn. Haven’t laughed that hard since a motherfucker slipped jugglin’ some axes on a unicycle and cut off his own fuckin’ head. Turned into a  _ fucking fountain! _ ” He chuckles at the memory and continues, “You’re all good, bro. I’m just here for a pail, no need to be all proper-like. Would've culled ya if you pulled that shit on me at work, though. I got a hell of a reputation to uphold.”

He takes another long drag and gestures at Darkleer, who is still silent, with his joint. “Speakin’ of, ain’t a motherfucker got a name?”

“Yes, Highblood. Executor Darkleer, Horuss Zahhak.”

“Zahhak… Hm, oh, shit,” he drawls, stretching out the  _ i _ . “We motherfuckin’ know each other.”

“Yes, Highblood.”

“You should've fuckin’ said somethin’! I’m over here makin’ an ass of myself, cause I’m an old bastard and you blues kinda blend together after a few motherfuckin’ centuries. Uh, no offense, of course.”

“None taken, Highblood,” he says emptily.  _ This  _ was the Grand Highblood? The best that landdwellers have to offer, the noble highblood he thirsted after for  _ sweeps _ , has the elegance and class of a newborn foal? And a mouth filthier than any gutterblood’s? Darkleer feels something in his pan shatter as he watches the Grand Highblood continue to pollute his royal lungs with that… that awful substance.

The Highblood meets his gaze with bleary eyes, and says, “This ain’t got a motherfuckin’ thing to do with our stations, got that?”

“Yes, Highblood.”

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about,” he gestures at him vaguely with the joint. “If we’re gonna pail, call me Makara. Or Kurloz, if you’re feelin’ nasty.”

Words could not begin to describe how udderly—er, utterly Darkleer did not want to do that. He was  _ not  _ feeling ‘nasty’. For the Highblood to approach this as if they were equals was unthinkable, but here they are. He was so close to his most optimal goal of the evening and yet so far.

Darkleer spent too long of a time in contemplation, and so the Highblood spoke again. “And that’s a motherfuckin’ order.”

_ Oh, that’s more like it,  _ came unbidden to the forefront of Darkleer’s pan, recently unshattered. As long as he treated him as his to order around as he wished, Darkleer could excuse the language and the drugs, even if he very much did not like them. His schemata remained intact for the time being. 

“Yes, Makara,” he said, and the name dripped off his tongue like a benediction.

A sly smile wound its way across the Highblood’s face, and his eyes instantly became sharper. He threw his smoke down and ground it into the dirt with his heel. Darkleer had never been so jealous of an inanimate object in his life. With surprising speed, especially considering the sheer size of the troll, the Grand Highblood surged forwards and placed his hands on either side of Darkleer’s head, cradling his skull and crashing their lips together.

And Darkleer was overwhelmed. Between the euphoria of a long-held goal being met; the smells of greasepaint and talc; the strong muscle of the Highblood’s chest under his hands; the taste of the Highblood’s mouth, herbal and spun-sugar; and the feel of the Highblood’s large, cold hands that could easily crush his pan, instead holding him tenderly… Honestly, he would have died happy if the Highblood did suddenly decide to cull him. (He would die happier if he were being  _ choked _ during all this, but you never look a gift hoofbeast in the mouth.) The Highblood was a  _ very  _ accomplished kisser. He could feel Makara’s many fangs hard and sharp behind his lips as he moved them against Darkleer’s own. And the threat of violence inherent to those razor-sharp fangs, of willingly presenting his soft flesh to the Highblood, of gifting him the opportunity to rip his lips and face to shreds… It was tantalizing.

While Darkleer’s imagination was  _ very  _ active, he never allowed himself to entertain the idea that he could possibly be romanced by the Highblood. He occasionally imagined himself as a vehicle for the Highblood’s pleasure, only to give himself up and take nothing of the Highblood in turn. Of horse—course, he also didn’t imagine the Grand Highblood to be so  _ vulgar _ in his personal life. For someone so perfectly capable to fulfill and  _ surpass  _ the role of highblood royalty to reject decorum and eloquence, to conduct themselves as if they were the lowest of the low, was utterly deplorable.

And as the Highblood moved his hands to grab at his waist and to cup his ass, Darkleer had a very sudden, very dangerous thought.  _ I could come to hate him.  _ Oh, fiddlesticks. He had long since trained himself out of anxiety-induced excessive perspiration, but the idea of being the Grand Highblood’s kismesis made him break out in sweat. If romance was out of the question, actually being quadranted to the Highblood was preposterous, completely ludicrous.

But thankfully he was distracted by these double-crossing thoughts by the Highblood twining his tongue into his mouth, by him kneading the flesh of his ass. Darkleer let out a very unbecoming moan. The Highblood stopped kissing him for a moment, dragging a singular claw up Darkleer’s throat and holding his chin up with it. He was forced to look directly at the Highblood, was completely at his mercy, and he loved it.

“You sure you in the right business?” He chuckles, “Unless you want me to fuck you in the dirt in front of the Messiahs and everybody—”

“I would be fine with that.” The Executor says, before realizing what he just said. He blushes blue, impossibly sweating more.

“Kinky bitch, ha. Wouldn’t have fuckin’ knew it from workin’ with ya, you’re such a tight-ass with rules and regulations and shit.”

Darkleer was about to voice an objection, but thought better of it, and allowed Makara to keep talking.

“I ain’t feelin’ exactly motherfuckin’ that right now,” he says, and puts his mouth next to Darkleer’s ear, murmuring to him. “I can take you over my altar next time, though, you fuckin’ whore.”

_ Next time? _

Keeping quiet was the wisest decision Darkleer had ever made in his fifty-odd sweeps of life. “Yes,” he said breathlessly.

“Yes  _ what _ ?”

“Makara. Yes, Makara, sir.”

“What a good little bitch you are. So fuckin’ eager to please,” he croons. Releasing Zahhak and adjusting his vest, the Highblood puts some space in between them. “We gotta take this to your block, the subjugglator officer respiteblocks are still bein’ cleaned and I don’t wanna give some random shitblood motherfucker a free show.”

“Yes, sir.” Darkleer replies instantly. Then does a mental tally of the state of his rumpus and respiteblocks, if he can remember anything especially incriminating laying about. He remembers everything being in their right places, tucked away in drawers and behind certain paintings, and so he leads the Highblood to the main archeradicator complex.

Luckily, his neighbors are mostly still at the Carrot & Stick, and so he doesn’t have to endure more teasing from them as he welcomes the Highblood into his block. Makara has to bend nearly in half to fit his immense horns, his immense  _ self _ , through the entryway. It is then that Horuss is truly grateful that he has the next few nights off, because he is greatly anticipating being unable to walk without a limp for the next week  _ at least _ .

Once that Makara actually enters the rumpusblock, his eyes go wide, roaming over the paintings of majestic muscle- and hoofbeasts spanning every single inch of available wall space and the bold statues in each corner. “Uh…”

“Ah, do you like it, sir?” He says, brightening immediately at the chance to talk about his passion. “I am very proud of my collection of highblood art, it has taken me sweeps to amass. I have exacting standards for what I allow in my abode.”

“I ain’t ever seen this motherfuckin’ much horsecock in one room, dude.”

“Oh.”

“Like, I’ve been workin’ with indigos since way before you fuckin’ hatched. This shit is unprecedented.” Seeing just how deflated his comments made Zahhak, he hastily adds, “I mean, it’s really well fuckin’ rendered horsecock. The painter- and sculptor- motherfuckers had a lot of talent.”

“I believe they’re called artists, but thank you, sir. I am aware that the subject matter is not for everyone. There aren’t as many paintings in my respiteblock and those are all mares.”

Under his breath the Highblood says, “oh, thank the Messiahs.”

“What was that?”

“Show me to the respiteblock,” Makara recovers, barely. 

“Right away, sir.” He strides over to the door and pushes it open, gesturing for the Highblood to enter first. Which he does, with about as much decorum as one can expect from fitting a square peg into a circular hole. Darkleer politely averts his eyes as Makara smacks his horns against the doorway for the third time before he actually gets through. If he wasn’t already disillusioned with the Highblood, he would have been after that display.

“Allow me to get the platform prepared. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He says as he pulls on the frame of a painting, revealing a hideaway concupiscent platform. Discreetly, he retrieves a handtowel and wipes his face clean of sweat and what little greasepaint rubbed off onto him. As he returns to getting the platform down and secured, he notices with abject horror the Highblood looking through  _ that  _ dresser.

The Highblood turns to him, shit-eating grin firmly affixed to his face, as he holds up his plundered treasure. A luridly purple silicone appendage, long and thick, the flared head drooping down Makara’s hand obscenely, the full silicone testicles pendulous.

“I didn’t mean for you to make yourself  _ that  _ comfortable,” he says as he dashes across the room to yank the massive horse dildo out of his hand to throw it, jiggling, back into the drawer. He slams it shut with enough force to crack the wood.

“And you were real fuckin’ offended at the motherfucking hoofbeastplay joke,” the Highblood says, shaking his head in a mock display of disapproval. “While that was hidden in your block this entire time. Fuckin’ shameful, Horuss.”

“In my defense, sir,” he pauses. “I didn’t think that you would see that.”

Makara throws his head back and laughs heartily again. “You’re a real funny motherfucker, ponybitch. As if I actually give a singular fuck about what weird shit you’re into. Can’t get any worse than making a prosthetic horse’s ass for your bitch, you know?”

The Executor blinks, completely lost at that non sequitur. “ _ What? _ ”

“Eh, forget it. Obligatory clown meta shit.” The Highblood absently scratches at the side of his face. “Are we actually gonna fuck or are we just gonna bitch at each other all night like a pair of flighty broads? I got shit to do in the morning.”

“Of course, Makara. Allow me to get… um, the necessary items.” Darkleer says, having too delicate a constitution to outright say bucket. He goes over to another door hidden behind a painting, swinging open the framed filly to reveal a closet filled with machinery and, at the right, a small stack of pails polished and gleaming. Sweating profusely, he freezes at the realization that he is actually going to live out his concupiscent fantasy after the confusion brought on by the Highblood’s bizarre statement fades. He basks in the reality of the situation for a moment. He eventually retrieves a pail and turns around, greeted by the Highblood lounging on the platform like he owns it.

Nude as the night he hatched.

If he were hatched in full clown paint, that is.

“The fuck you still doin’ over there? Come and serve your superior,” he drawls, leaning back and opening his legs further in invitation.

“Yes, Hi—Makara, sir,” he says, moving to the Highblood, and kneels in between his legs. Gingerly placing his hands on top of Makara’s thighs, he looks up at him, wordlessly asking for approval.

“What, you ain’t ever ate nook before? I ain’t got all night, ponybitch.”

“I have, sir,” Darkleer says surly, and leans forward and gives his slit a tentative lick. The Highblood lets out a small, appreciative hum. Spurred on by this, Zahhak starts to lave the slit with his tongue. With each ministration, the Highblood’s plating slowly opens to him, and Darkleer licks up into his nook proper. Makara lets out a shaky breath. Focusing on the sensitive muscle of the opening, Darkleer teases his nook open, twisting his tongue in and out in an approximation of a bulge.

“Shit,” the Highblood breathes out. He grabs Zahhak by the horns and holds him firm against his nook. “Guess you  _ have  _ fuckin’ done this before,” he chuckles before breaking off into a moan as Zahhak runs his tongue against a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.

As Darkleer focuses on pleasuring his Highblood, he is distantly aware of the growing stain of his own prematerial collecting on the seat of his pants and the writhing of his bulge against his thigh—his half-unsheathed bulge almost as desperate as he is as it seeks stimulation. The feel of the fabric and the constriction both feel  _ delicious  _ to him. But even that remote awareness is dashed as he feels the Highblood’s bulge start to emerge from its sheath. The tip brushes against his hairline, right at the apex of his widow’s peak—and then, slowly but surely, it keeps coming out.

_ Oh. Make that two weeks of limping,  _ the only cognizant thought in his thinkpan helpfully provides as he feels the ridges brushing against his forehead as the bulge continues to sluggishly extricate itself.

The Highblood helpfully guides his bulge to wrap around his own wrist as he keeps a vice-grip on Horuss’ horn. Any more pressure and the horn would shatter in the Highblood’s fist, and a shiver of pleasure runs through Horuss at the thought. He would be proud to bear a broken horn as memento of this tryst.

He feels the bulge finally stop emerging after what feels like an eternity of tonguing the Highblood’s nook. He can’t see it directly, but he guesses that the bulge is wrapped  _ at least _ three times around Makara’s thick wrist. He can feel the Highblood’s thighs tremble in pleasure under Darkleer’s hands, and his nook quivers around his tongue.

Suddenly, the Highblood releases his hold on Darkleer’s horns, and rasps out, “I’m gonna come.”

Horuss, tongue still firmly in the Highblood, grabs the bucket and places it on the floor between them. Then, as he feels the first gush of slurry reach his lips, pulls back only slightly. He keeps his mouth open, tongue lolling fully out, as he allows the slurry to flow into his mouth before dripping down his tongue into the pail below him. The sweet taste of the Highblood’s genetic material is intoxicating to Darkleer, as is the perverse thrill of the denigration of being used as his bucket.

The Highblood, spent, pants hard. About to say something snarky, he is instead momentarily dumbfounded by the sight between his legs—the Darkleer, kneeling, mouth still open and purple staining the bottom half of his face, still dribbling down his extended tongue and openly gawking at the Highblood’s bulge still wrapped around his wrist. The only sounds in the block are their combined heavy breathing and the soft  _ drip, drip  _ of the slurry as it rolls off his tongue into the pail. Horuss suddenly becomes aware of himself and his shameful display. Retracting his tongue and snapping his jaw shut, he swallows what little material remained in his mouth and scrubs at the mess on his face with the back of his hand.

“ _ Motherfucker _ ,” Makara whispers beatifically, “you’re a real freaky bitch.”

“Um… thank you?”

The Highblood laughs. “I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I ought to up and say that to you, ponybitch. Stand up.”

Darkleer stands up so quickly he nearly knocks over the bucket in his haste. Makara chuckles and unwinds his bulge from his wrist. He grabs him by the thighs—spreading them open as he picks up the Executor and plops him on his naked lap. Darkleer  _ squeaks  _ as he hits the strong muscle of the Highblood’s thighs, the faint feeling of his bulge rubbing against his clothed nook. 

Uncaring of the mess on Darkleer’s face, the Highblood guides him into another searing kiss, squeezes Darkleer’s ass. Horuss wraps his arms around the Highblood’s neck, grasping at a mess of hair at the nape of it. At the tug, the Highblood moans into the kiss, and at this encouragement, Zahhak grinds his aching nook into the wriggling fat bulge under him.

Makara’s hold on his ass strengthens. His clawtips prick through the material of Zahhak’s pants, and the tiny pinpricks of pain only increases the ecstasy Darkleer feels. That ecstasy reaches new heights as the Highblood forces him down onto the base of his bulge, rhythmically rubbing Darkleer’s nook and thighs against himself.  _ Using  _ him as a tool for his own pleasure  _ as is his hatchright _ , Darkleer realizes with a jolt—his goal for the evening has been met, and he is going to surpass it beautifully.

He isn’t known for doing anything by calves—uh, halves, after all.

Their kiss grows frenzied at the new onslaught of pleasure, Horuss particularly frantic at this point, losing his grip on the Highblood’s hair and instead rests his hands on the Highblood’s extraordinary pectorals. The Highblood gathers his hair in one massive hand and  _ yanks _ , wrenching his head back painfully, and places sweet, gentle kisses all over his exposed throat.

The sudden flip from pitch to flushed attention stuns Darkleer, and a surprised sob of pleasure escapes him. The Highblood moves down his throat, places a faint flushed kiss onto his still-clothed shoulder, then bites down  _ hard _ , sinking his fangs into the meat of his shoulder.

Darkleer screams. His shirt bore the brunt of the assault, and it wasn’t so deep a bite it would scar, but the capricious actions of the Highblood and the pain of the bite send him near to orgasm. He can hear Makara chuckling against his shoulder, and he releases Darkleer, licking absently at the welling blood from the wound he made.

“Ready for the main event?” The Highblood says, painted fangs and lips messy with Darkleer’s blood and his own slurry.

“Yes, sir,” Darkleer moans.

“Alright, ponybitch,” he says, placing one last little smooch against the side of Darkleer’s neck. He reaches underneath the Executor and easily rips a hole in his pants, exposing his neglected nook and allowing his bulge to unsheathe fully. Darkleer’s nook drips blue prematerial freely onto the Highblood’s bulge and hand.

But before the Highblood guides his bulge in, he hesitates for a moment, and says, “Once I get this in you proper, I’m not going to fuckin’ stop til I come.”

“My body is yours to use how you see fit,” Darkleer responds reflexively.

“You that desperate for me to use you as a fuckin’ bucket a second time?”

“Yes, Makara, please, fill me,” he begs.

“Ain’t gotta ask a motherfucker twice,” he says, grinning, and slides the tip in. “Whore,” he adds on, then thinking for a moment, amends it to “Hor.”

Darkleer moans, a loud and wild noise, at the first direct stimulation to his poor neglected nook, not even slightly aware of the new insulting nickname he’s been given. The bulge writhes its way deeper into him, the wide ridges near-overstimulating as they pass through his opening. Slowly, surely, he sinks down the entire bulge, setting flush against the Highblood’s hips. His legs are held open so wide they ache, but that sensation is overridden by the sheer pleasure of the way the Highblood’s bulge languidly rubs against the walls of his nook.

Darkleer looks at the Highblood directly, pupils blown wide and mouth open, blowing out a soft  _ hah.  _ The Highblood isn’t faring much better, unaccustomed to a troll who could actually his bulge to the root (Horuss really  _ was  _ a sturdy bitch)—his mouth is drooped open, eyes at half mast. At the eye contact, he smiles, and whispers, “Giddy up.”

Horuss cocks his head, confused, before the Highblood smacks his ass  _ hard _ . With hands at either side of Darkleer’s waist, starts moving him up and down—forcing Horuss to  _ ride  _ him. Horuss’ eyes roll up to the back of his head, and, inhibitions completely annihilated, snarls, “ _ Fuck you _ .”

The Highblood quips, “You already are, ponybitch.” He leans back entirely, laying on the platform with his feet sturdy on the floor. Using the increased leverage to set a brutal pace, he holds Darkleer exactly where he wants him as he fucks him harder.

And Darkleer, immoble, takes it. He holds desperately onto the Highblood’s hands at his waist and braces his knees against the soft surface of the platform, trying to gain some sense of stability as Makara fucks all cognizance out of him. He scream-babbles out  _ Highblood  _ in complete bliss, completely oblivious to everything except for the feeling of frigid royal bulge sliding in and out of him, ridges popping in and out of his nook, scraping the over-stretched and over-pleasured walls. 

The Highblood growls, a low thing that’s felt rather than heard, and halts his movements. Horuss comes slightly back into awareness as the Highblood stands up, easily carrying Darkleer up with him, before turning around and  _ slamming  _ Darkleer’s back into the soft platform. Hiking Darkleer’s knees against his shoulders, ripping the hole in his clothing open further, and effectively folding him in half, Makara continues to mercilessly fuck him. The platform-springs protest and something cracks at the increased abuse and weight of the two massive trolls.

Horuss screams louder, as the new position somehow allows the Highblood to fill him deeper and fuck him faster. His hands instinctively go above his head, clasping together against the platform’s surface. He is so, so close to orgasm.

“Choke me,” he screams, “ _ Please _ , Kurloz.”

And Kurloz obliges. As soon as his powerful hand wraps around his neck, as soon as he cuts off Darkleer’s airway and his lungs burn with the lack of oxygen, Horuss comes. He feels the muscles in his thighs and stomach twitch and ripple, the muscles in his nook contract hard against Kurloz’s bulge, the slurry running out of him, sees white as he rides out the orgasm—intensified by the Highblood still railing him, still depriving him of air.

The first thought that enters his mind once the feeling subsides, the first actual thought since they began this tryst, is  _ I can die happy now.  _ But he doesn’t, as the Highblood releases the stranglehold on his neck, and Darkleer takes in a deep, shuttering breath and coughs a few times as his lungs frantically inflate once again.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” the Highblood breathes out, as he changes from brutal thrusts to fast undulations, largely keeping the entirety of his bulge in Darkleer as he madly grinds into him. It’s entirely too much for Darkleer, the pleasure so great it’s painful, and he hoarsely screams as loud as his abused lungs let him.

Makara suddenly grabs one of the hands above his head and wrenches his arm out to the side, exposing Horuss’ uninjured shoulder to him. He sinks his teeth  _ deep _ into that shoulder, prompting a fresh shriek from Horuss, and lets out a loud honk against his bleeding skin as he comes in him.

Fangs scraping against his scapula and the Highblood’s bulge pulsing in him are the last sensations Horuss experiences before he falls unconscious from the over-stimulation of pain and pleasure. He wakes a short time afterwards, still laying on the platform, but now naked. He feels a soft, damp towel gently washing the inside of his thighs, and a gentle melodic humming, before he opens his eyes. Makara is seated next to him, attending to him.

“You okay there, bro?” The Highblood says, concerned, as he notices Horuss stirring.

“I think,” he says, soft and vulnerable, before his eyes focus on the Highblood’s face. “You’re not wearing any paint.”

He laughs. “You made a real fuckin’ mess of my face, brother. No savin’ it.”

“You’re very handsome,” Darkleer says candidly, too exhausted to hold back the comment.

“Well, yeah. No ugly motherfucker could lead a clown-themed death cult.” He says, before thinking better of it and amending it to, “No ugly motherfucker could lead a  _ successful  _ clown-themed death cult.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever put any thought into leading a cult, clown or otherwise.”

“No one ever does, ponybitch. I've got the cult market cornered.” Makara chuckles again, placing a delicate kiss onto the Executor’s forehead, humming some little song, before grabbing another towel and moving to clean the bite-wounds he left. The Executor winces at the drag of terrycloth against raw flesh, but does not make a sound. He submits to the Highblood’s care, and allows him to play mediculler as he tends to his injuries and cleans all evidence of their union away. It feels good to be reverently washed and attended to. This level of care is alien to Darkleer, and he savors the feeling, even when he believes their roles should be reversed; he is the one who should be attending to the Highblood. But he instead focuses only on the sensation of the damp cloth, the temperature of the Highblood pressed at his side, and how meticulous the Highblood is with his wicked claws. The sharp tips could easily slice his vulnerable torso open, tear out steaming intestines, and yet the Highblood is painstakingly mindful of them, not allowing even a minute graze across his skin. Darkleer is completely pacified, docile under his hands.

After a few minutes, the Highblood smooths on bandages over the clean wounds. He helps Darkleer, pan fuzzy after the pale attention, sit up against the protest of his sore core muscles. Then, abruptly, Kurloz slaps him clear across the face. Darkleer’s head snaps to the side from the force and he cradles the hurt cheek, pan cleared with the strike, looking at him with anger and puzzlement clear in his wide eyes at the unanticipated violence.

“You disobeyed one of my fuckin’ orders,” the Highblood explains, voice neutral. “You called me highblood when I told you not to motherfucking do that.”

Distantly, Darkleer remembers doing that. “I apologize, Makara, sir. I will endeavor to obey you fully in the future.”

“Good,” he says, before standing and walking to where he threw his clothes (and the shredded remains of Darkleer’s uniform). Pulling on his ridiculous wide-legged pants, he stops and says to Darkleer, "Hope you don't mind watchin' me put on my face."

Darkleer shakes his head, not wanting to speak further until the stinging in his cheek subsides. The Highblood smiles and digs through the pockets before triumphantly pulling out a compact with a green swirl on it. He sits back on the platform next to Darkleer, and Darkleer rests his injured cheek against the Highblood’s cool muscular arm, giving it some reprieve. Opening the compact, Kurloz uses the tiny mirror and the enclosed sponge to smear white greasepaint on his face.

Once the Highblood put on an even coat of white, he puts the little sponge back in the compact and snaps it shut, putting it back into his pocket. Searching again, this time for a little red-swirled compact and a fine-tipped brush, he uses it to draw the black, fanged skull design of his paint. Darkleer, transfixed, watches on from his comfortable spot at Makara’s side, the chilled skin long-since took the pain away from the injury. The pattern painting takes a few minutes, and Makara is visibly deep in concentration as he makesit perfectly symmetrical. Satisfied, he too drops that back into his pocket.

Delving into both his pockets for a third time, with a frustrated  _ now where the fuck could I have put my powder,  _ he finds a little purple box and a large, fluffy brush. Taking the large puff out of the box, he dips it into the white setting powder and liberally coats his freshly-painted face with it. Large clouds of the finely-milled powder fill the air, dusted this way and that as the Highblood uses the fluffy brush to dust away excess talc from his face and chest. Horuss takes his head off the Highblood’s arm, shaking the powder off where it was obvious against his black hair. 

“Ya know, for a second there I thought I had really fucked up and killed ya, Hor,” the Highblood says as he puts away the makeup, grabbing a small strand of Darkleer’s hair and giving it a cheeky little tug. “Glad I didn’t. You’re the freakiest motherfucker I’ve pailed in a few decades, I’d miss that miraculous nook of yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Darkleer says, too fucked-out to even pretend at propriety. “I am pleased to be of use to you.”

The Highblood grins, a happy little thing. He stands up, dragging a finger delicately across Darkleer’s strong jaw as he does, and goes over to where he threw his vest and shoes. He plops down on the ground to put on his shoes. As he’s working at the laces, he says, “Oh, and I forgot to send a memo before you went on leave, but I’ll need you to cull the source from that last mission when you get back to work. Got word that he’s moving up in rank, and we can’t have him blabbin’ that the Empire knows everything about the shitblood rebellion to everybody, or have him start changin’ the plans he's snitched.”

The Executor startles at the sudden change in demeanor, the rapid change back to the Grand Highblood that he’s worked under for sweeps rather than the clumsy, foul-mouthed oaf of this evening. “Yes, Grand Highblood, sir,” he says.

“Knew I could count on you, ponybitch,” the Highblood stands back up, zipping the striped vest back on. Before he leaves, though, he says, “Oh, and don’t tell anyone on up the line of command about this. I ain’t exactly supposed to be pailin’ subordinates. Normally no one would fuckin’ care, but a few brined bastards been lookin’ for an excuse to demote my ornery ass.”

“I understand, Highblood,” he says. “I will keep silent on this.”

He smiles, a nightmarish sight, as for the first time that night he shows too many of his needle-like fangs still faintly glistening with Darkleer’s blood. He presses one last good-morning kiss onto the Executor’s lips, runs his fingers through silky hair one last time. Then he deftly moves through the door to the rumpusblock, and right before exiting Darkleer’s block entirely, blows him a kiss and says, “See ya later, Hor, you fuckin’ bucketslut.”

Loudly. With the door open, before flinging it shut so hard the walls shook. It was almost sunrise, and so his neighbors would have surely returned from that disgusting bar by now.

Horuss sighs, face flushed from the utter humiliation of his procilivites made public and the distinct feeling that he just got played and played  _ hard _ , and tries to stand up. His thigh muscles protest, and his nook  _ definitely  _ protests, but he can walk somewhat. He puts the platform back into its hidden storage, wanting desperately to crawl into his recuperacoon and sleep away the rest of his leave. But when he clicks the frame back into place, he sees that the painting is cracked. The subject of the painting, a frolicking mare, is unrecognizable for the fissures branching across the surface. Small fractures of oil paint fall to the floor, jostled out of the frame from the force of being put back onto the wall, where they’re immediately colored by the purple and blue mess—

From the overturned bucket and from, what Horuss would gamble, Kurloz not caring to actually use it.

“That mother _ fucker _ .”

* * *

Executor Darkleer returns to service, uniform perfect and limp barely noticeable, three nights later. The bruise on the side of his face is faded but still clearly evident. As he goes to enter his office, he’s stopped by his secreterrorist conspicuously clearing his throat and informing him of urgent messages.

“You have seventeen noise complaints against you, Executor, sir,” Codakk says, reading from a tablet. “There is a charge from the Carrot & Stick in excess of a thousand caegars on your account, with the message, and I quote, thank you for your support of the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs, honkelujah, end quote _._ The head of the ethics committee has requested an audience with you. And the Grand Highblood has scheduled a private meeting with you at three-hundred hours in his throneblock.” He locks the tablet, sets it back down on his desk, and gives Darkleer a crooked, licentious smile. “Someone had a busy leave.”

“I do not know what you are referring to. Get back to work.” Executor Darkleer says coldly, before slamming his office door shut behind him. Muffled screaming and destruction of innocent office supplies, deadened by the thick wood of the door, are barely audible. 

Secreterrorist Codakk rolls his eyes and unlocks his tablet, pulling up his Trollian. He opens the bulletin board for archeradicator secreterrorists and smugly types in a very simple message that destroys his notifications for the rest of the worknight.

_ He got that clown bulge. ♠Now pay up.♠ _


End file.
